


You Know a Lot About Needles

by shiverfawkes



Series: Trans!John Watson [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hugs, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Needles, Periods, Trans John Watson, Trans Male Character, testosterone shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:39:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiverfawkes/pseuds/shiverfawkes
Summary: Johns hands are shaking. There's a needle in his leg.He needs Sherlock to help.The only issue is, that he's in his boxers and his dosage of testosterone has changed.





	You Know a Lot About Needles

John groaned in frustration, and partially in pain.

He shouldn’t have tried it, he should’ve waited or asked for help in the first place.

Now he was sitting on the edge of the bath, in his striped pyjama top and his red boxers, with a testosterone needle in his leg, held upright gently by his hand, the other one gripping the bath in an attempt to stop it from shaking.

He couldn’t do the shot. But he couldn’t pull the needle out either. His hands were shaking to much for either.

His only option was to call his flatmate, who he knew was laying on the sofa on his phone, Johns phone.

As much as he didn’t want his attractive flatmate, who he had a very supressed crush on, to see him in his underwear. He really didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t wait there until his hand stopped shaking, because he didn’t know when it would stop.

“Sherlock!” He called, his voice sounding more strangled than he realised it would.

There wasn’t an answer.

“Look whatever murderer you’re texting can wait! I need your help!” He called, some of his anger seeping into his words and he cursed himself further.

Last night’s events probably weren’t helping Sherlock’s decision to help him either.

John had gotten annoyed, Sherlock had rubbed him the wrong way and he threw a wobbly. He’d yelled and shouted and shoved Sherlock so hard he nearly tripped over the coffee table. The worst part was, once he’d calmed down he realised that it wasn’t even a big deal, not a big enough deal to cause that kind of anger.

He was just tired and aching, and angry at the world.

At last the door opened slowly, Sherlock standing in his dressing gown and his clothes from last night, minus the blazer and his shoes. “Is that?..” He didn’t finish his sentence, his eyes trained to the needle in John’s leg.

“It’s testosterone don’t worry.”

“So, you called me here for what exactly? To watch you do your shot?”

“My hand is shaking.”

“You have two hands.” Sherlock replied quickly and John resisted the urge to sigh, closing his eyes and rubbing a shaky hand over his face.

“I need both of them to do the shot and I can’t pull it out either.” John replied if a little exasperatedly, he knew that Sherlock knew exactly why he’d called him here and yet this was the one time he chose to lay back from acting on his deductions. “Look, I need you to help me. It’s already in you just need to push the plunger and take it out, you’ve had enough experience with needles to know how.” He added, his words carrying more bite than he intended but Sherlock didn’t look phased.

He simply raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re poking fun at my drug habits?”

“Look for once in your life can you not be a prick and help me?”

“Why do you think calling me names is going to persuade me?”

“Because it usually _does_.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, choosing instead to make an indignant noise in the back of his throat and walk over to John, kneeling as he took the needle gently from him. His hands were steady as his fingers hooked the end of the needle, his thumb on the plunger, with the size of his hands he only needed to use one. Despite being embarrassed. John resisted a laugh as he took in the scenario. A lot of people would pay good money to be in this position with Sherlock Holmes on his knees in front of them.

And he didn’t even have to.

Breaking from his thoughts he braced himself for the shot. Just as Sherlock was about to push the plunger down a pang of guilt hit John in the chest.

“I'm sorry.” He spoke quietly, and Sherlock looked up, still keeping the needle in place, but his brow was furrowed, and he was frowning.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve been a complete and utter prat the last two, maybe even three days. And you haven’t said anything, you just sort of took it, and I feel awful. I think I'm just tired, we have the day off today and I’ll probably just catch up on sleep.” John replied, breaking eye contact with Sherlock as quickly as it had started. “So yeah, I'm sorry.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but the way he placed his vacant hand on John’s leg told him he understood, or at least he hoped that was the gesture.

“You changed the dosage of testosterone you’re using.” Sherlock noted, as he pushed the plunger down slowly and John drew in a breath

“Yeah, doctors orders.”

“You are a doctor.”

John laughed, trying not to move, staring at the ceiling. “Doesn’t mean I don’t need one.”

Sherlock noticed a small spot of darkening red on Johns boxers, it wasn’t rapidly expanding, thank god, but that meant two other things. He sniffed, before squeezing his eyes shut at the realisation he’d just made, it was the considerably worse of the two things. “Well I’ve made a deduction.” He said, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he glanced up at the shorter man.

“About what?”

“It may be unpleasant for you to hear.”

“Since when do you care about being pleasant?”

“You’ve started your period.” Sherlock spoke, his tone nonchalant as he pulled the needle out of John’s leg, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

John felt his chest collapse in on itself, as Sherlock stood up, offering him a hand. He took it shakily, trying to come to terms with what was happening.

So that was the ache and that was the anger.

“Toilet roll with have to do for the moment. Get back into bed, I’m going to the shops.” Sherlock spoke, shedding his dressing gown as he walked out of the bathroom briskly, going for his coat.

John ran after him once his thoughts caught up, ignoring the cramp in his stomach. “You? Sherlock Holmes? Are going to the shops? What for?”

“Well I don’t suppose a man who hasn’t had a period for a decade-and-a-half owns any sanitary products. Sanitary towels if my guess is correct, do you want anything else?” Sherlock asked, his words quick, tying his scarf, his mouth quirked up into an amused smirk.

John now felt very exposed, standing in his underwear in the living room of their flat, with his flatmate’s eyes raking over his body. He should’ve felt like this a moment ago with Sherlock mere inches from his crotch. “No, I uh- No I'm fine, but we’re out of biscuits.”

“Jolly good, back in a jiffy.” Sherlock spoke with a grin, and John couldn’t help but smile as he watched him go.

When Sherlock came back John was in his room, in his bed, curled in on himself. He was breathing quickly, not quite crying, but getting there.

He set down the plastic bag on the floor, rushing to the side of John’s bed, and placing a gentle hand on John’s shoulder. The soldier didn’t open his eyes but made a grunt of acknowledgement to let Sherlock know he wasn’t dying.

“Are you okay?” Sherlock asked, feeling stupid for asking the moment the words left his lips. He traced small circles into Johns shoulder with his thumb. He had the urge to push John’s hair out of his eyes, tell him everything would be fine, tell him he was there. But he discarded the thought immediately, shaking his head.

“Yeah.” John spoke, his tone pained. “Just pains, I'm fine.”

“Hold tight, I’ll be back in a second.” Sherlock replied, walking down the stairs as quickly as he’d come up them.

He filled the kettle, flicking it on, and preparing two mugs of tea and a hot water-bottle. Setting the pack of painkillers he had, on the plate with the biscuits he bought. Tucking the water-bottle under his arm, he played a precarious game of human Jenga as he walked up the stairs. Keeping his balance in a desperate attempt not to dribble boiling tea down his fingers.

John had sat up by this point, heels of his hands pressed into his eyes, he gave Sherlock a look of gratitude when he looked up, taking the mug of tea in his hands, and pressing the hot water bottle to his stomach. Sherlock sat beside him on the edge of his bed, slightly unsure if this was alright, but John didn’t seem phased, taking two of the painkillers dry.

“Something else is wrong, I'm not stupid enough to believe that it’s _just_ pains.” Sherlock spoke, after a moment of drinking their tea in silence.

John looked at him, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to structure either a way to get out of it, or a way to reply. “Well it’s embarrassing isn’t it?” It was taking every ounce of nerve in his body to prevent himself from crying, he was fed up at this point.

“What?”

“This, I mean, first I have to ask you to do my shot, then _this_.”

“I don’t recognise the significance.”

“For the years that I’ve lived here, I’ve kept this part of me away from you. You saw me as John Watson, the army doctor. And now- after this- what will you see then? Abby Watson the tranny that can’t even do a shot by himself.”

“John with all due respect, shut up. Your assumptions are frightfully insulting.” John looked at him quizzically, taking a biscuit. “I don’t care. The body is transport, considering you love throwing that quote in my face so often, I thought you would’ve listened to it. You needed my help and we’re-“ He broke his sentence, looking for the right word, flatmates? Colleagues? No, they were more than that. “We’re friends.”

“Exactly. The same way me and Lestrade are, but if I had to ask Greg for help, I’d sooner shoot myself.”

“Well then we’ve reached a simple conclusion.”

“Hm?”

“Perhaps we are more than friends.”

There was a moment of silence before John realised properly what had just been said, he paused for a moment to think, and then sighed.

“Well I don’t know where to go from there.” He laughed a little, wincing slightly as it hurt to do so. He didn’t doubt Sherlock knew he had a crush, but he’d rather wait until he didn’t feel like he was being stabbed repeatedly in the stomach before he acted on it.

“To sleep I’d imagine. You’re in pain, we’ll resolve it when the painkillers kick in.” Sherlock replied, taking Johns mug from his hands, which had now stopped shaking. He placed a hand on John’s shoulder, letting his fingers linger before leaving quietly, shutting the door behind him.

John came down the stairs a few hours later, dressed properly and from the way he was walking Sherlock could tell he was uncomfortable having to use the sanitary product.

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asked, flicking the kettle on, going back to staring at his microscope.

“Relatively. I forgot how much of a pain in the ass this is.”

“Pain in the everywhere, last we spoke.” Sherlock remarked, smiling to himself as John chuckled. “You’ll get used to it again, if not there are more options, birth control, ovariohysterectomy.”

“I should’ve seen it coming.” John spoke quietly, getting started on making tea, two mugs hit the counter, and the taller man smiled to himself.

“I _would’ve_ had I known.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

“What are you looking at?” He asked, setting the mug beside Sherlock, who took his eyes from the lap equipment, offering him a smile before he took a sip.

“Variants of mould.”

“Fantastic.”

“Indeed.” As he looked back, he could feel John standing somewhat awkwardly, staring at him, unsure of what type of affection would be acceptable, but desperate to show it. “John if you want to hug me I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Almost silently, a pair of arms wrapped around his waist, and he could feel Johns head pressing into his back. He was warm, and distracting, Sherlock wanted to turn around and reciprocate. Instead he kept his eyes focused through the microscope, twisting the dials ever so slightly as if he was paying attention to what he could see under it and not focusing on John’s firm grip over his midriff.

John mumbled something incoherent, muffled by the fabric of his clothes. He could feel John’s voice vibrating against him.

“Pardon?”

“Your dressing grown is soft.”

“Despite my disregard for human sensation, I do enjoy things that feel pleasant.” Sherlock replied, his voice a low murmur. “Including this, I like this, it’s nice.” He added. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah, uhm, thanks.” John replied awkwardly, pulling away, and Sherlock smiled softly.

He set the microscope slide into a box among some of his others, taking another sip of his tea, turning to John who seemed to freeze when their eyes met, as if he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Even though he was simply leaning against the kitchen table drinking from his mug of tea.

He wouldn’t deny for a second that he thought John was attractive. It was true, his eyes were staggering, and his overall physique was enticing. It didn’t help that Sherlock had unknowingly fallen in love with Johns mind, even in its simple moments. But he’d kept himself restrained, knowing John was his flatmate, part-time colleague and only friend, and despite being bisexual, had a preference for women.

John licked his lips as Sherlock stared back at him, and his eyes dropped a fraction lower for a split second before going back to Sherlocks own, his face flushing red, and he turned back to his tea.  

“You are going to be impossible.” Sherlock spoke in response to John’s actions, taking a step closer, so their chests were barely inches apart, smirking as John swallowed looking up at him.

Gently, he reached a hand up, his fingertips barely grazing Johns cheek, and the doctor leaned into his touch, even though his hands were just shy of too cold.

He went slowly, so John had ample time to object, but instead he stood up taller, meeting Sherlock halfway, their lips pressing together softly. Johns hand curled into Sherlocks shirt, pulling him closer, harder against him, relaxing.

Sherlock avoided Johns waist, knowing that touching him there was likely to elicit a negative reaction. Instead he chose to keep his hand cupped against Johns cheek and the other against the kitchen table.

John pulled away, still looking up. “That was- god- good, that was good.” He spoke, his voice almost a whisper.

“Good, feel free to do it when you like. Though I'm not too fond of public displays.” Sherlock replied simply stepping away and going to sit in his chair, clicking on the television, and drawing his knees to his chest as he searched for something to watch.

He resisted the urge to grin as John was still staring at him, dumbfounded.

His own lips were still tingling, he was itching to do it again, but he needed John to initiate it to know that he was okay with it completely. “Paper’s on your chair, nicked it off Mrs Hudson earlier.” He spoke, somewhat encouraging John to relax, to sit in his chair, to know that this situation was normal.

Because it was normal.

If anything, that was what was freaking him out.

They sat like that for a while. John giggling into his paper as Sherlock argued with the telly. Mrs Hudson popped up to say hello and take her paper back. John found a hand in a zip-lock bag on the top shelf of the fridge.

It was as if the events of the morning hadn’t even taken place. It was as if the events of the afternoon were perfectly reasonable.

John could get used to this.

“I told you, I don’t care. What happened this morning didn’t mean anything to me.” Sherlock spoke, when John turned from the TV to look at him, he was met with the pale green. “Stop worrying about it.”

John licked his lips again. “You’re eating right?” Sherlock nodded, redirecting his gaze back to the tv. “Chinese sound alright to you?”

“Mhm.”

John got up grabbing his phone from the coffee table, where Sherlock had left it, leaving the living room to call. He knew Sherlocks order by now.

Sherlock was up by the time he came back in, rinsing his and John’s mugs in the sink, setting them on the draining board. John noticed, and grabbed a dish-towel, picking up the mugs to dry them. “I think that’s the first time you’ve washed a cup on your own accord.” He giggled, stretching up to put the mugs on the top shelf.

The taller man didn’t respond, instead pressing his face against the top of John’s head, his arm placed gingerly against his waist. The way Johns shoulders relaxed, told him it was okay, and he pulled the shorter man against him in a proper hug.

John smelled like coffee, and manly shower gel. His head came to Sherlock’s chest and there it rested, no doubt he was listening to the taller man’s heart beat.

Suddenly John was looking up at him, and as if he was poking something dangerous with a stick, tentatively he reached a hand up, his fingers weaving through Sherlocks hair. Then his hand applied force, pulling Sherlock down as he pushed up, connecting their lips again, and Sherlock smiled into it, kissing him back.

Johns hand tightened in Sherlocks hair and despite knowing it would, it still caught him off guard and he gasped, allowing John to use his tongue.

They stayed like that for a little while, making out in their kitchen, pulling each other close.

“I’ve gone mad.” John spoke when they finally pulled away from one another. “God- Sherlock- I-“ He stammered over himself, trying to look anywhere but Sherlock. “Where does this leave us then?” He asked finally.

“I don’t follow.”

“That’s a change. I mean what are we to each other? Boyfriends? Friends with benefits?” He cringed at that, saying it seemed to leave a sour taste in his mouth. “Because I'm sure that flatmates-that-make-out-in-the-kitchen isn’t a sufficient label.”

“Why do we need a label? What’s wrong with just… This? This is nice, simple, sufficient. If anyone asks, if anyone accuses, we don’t have to lie to them.” Sherlock spoke, choosing his words carefully, he resisted a sigh when he noticed a small fall in Johns features. “It’s not because I'm ashamed of you John. Never. You’re my only friend, the best thing I have. But I want that, I want you to be John Hamish Watson, blogger, army doctor. I don’t want you to be Sherlock Holmes’ Boyfriend. It would look dreadful on your resume trust me.” John tried to hide a smile, but Sherlock dug his fingers into the shorter man’s ribs, making him laugh.

“Alright then.” He said finally, leaning up to press a kiss to the side of Sherlocks face, just at his jaw.

“You’ll need to take more painkillers about now.”

John groaned pressing his face against Sherlocks chest again, as if the mention of it somehow made it hurt more.

“This is the worst.”

“You’ve gone through worse.”

“Yeah I know, I'm your flatmate.”

“That you make out with in the kitchen.”

“Damn straight.”

Sherlock laughed.


End file.
